


prometheus

by mirxge



Category: VALORANT (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Character Study, MCD is for one moment, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, tagged just in case but it's not a super major thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 01:20:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30081258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirxge/pseuds/mirxge
Summary: He can’t help but stifle his laughter.A copy of me? How interesting.A flick of his wrist, a quick shot, and the tripwire is gone. Metal fragments rain down on the grass as they lose their orange luster; his pistol is tucked back into his jacket for his Operator as foreign, bitter thoughts begin to sweep in.I wonder what you have to hide. What have you lost, Aamir?
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 29





	prometheus

**Author's Note:**

> hello! thank you for checking this fic out.
> 
> as a cypher ~~simp~~ main, i've kind of been intrigued by a majority of his voice lines, and it prompted me to dig into them further. i tried throwing them together in some way that seems to work, and here we go. hopefully will do more of this eventually, he's a fun character to play and theorize about :)
> 
> anyway, enjoy! and thank you once again.

Sometimes, he dreams of a different world. 

He dreams of a world where he is not known as Cypher, but instead as Aamir. He dreams of sitting around a table with his wife and kids, and the sound of their collective surprise as he pulls out a coin from Salma’s ear. Nora’s faking her gasp - he knows that; she’s seen this trick too many times to ever fall for it again. But nothing in the room will compare to the radiance of her smile the second she sees the light shine in their kids’ eyes, even in the ghostly realm of dreams, where everything feels like static through his senses.

He dreams of a world where he has stepped out of the life of crime, and instead moved into a more honest living. He dreams of being a humble shopkeeper at the edge of his city, catering to tourists that come from all corners of the world. He dreams of giving his family the life they deserve, not the life he’s ended up with. He dreams of warmth and comfort and calling a place  _ home. _

It’s these moments when he feels at peace. He thinks he can breathe, until his eyes flicker open and the cold air of the Headquarters swipes him in the face. He glances to the side and sees cybernetic eyes staring right back at him, waiting for Cypher to return.

* * *

_ Bind. _ The name is bitter in Cypher’s mouth.

They’re cleaning up site. Or, more specifically, picking up their own weapons and the defused bomb, and leaving the corpses of the clones behind for Kingdom to deal with instead. Brimstone likes telling everyone that they shouldn’t get their hands dirty over rotting, artificial bodies; Cypher knows the corpses are only there for a message:  _ We are stronger. Don’t try to lay a finger on us. Don’t hunt us down. _

Brimstone will never say that out loud. Cypher doesn’t need to think twice to understand why, as pristine silk wipes away at the blood and dirt on his Operator. The captain is smart enough to know what not to bring up. Yet, the captain doesn’t know that with each and every moment Cypher remains on this site, his mind moves further and further away from the mission, and instead closer to the one thing he’d classify as a distraction.

Tripwires are picked up along hallways, littered with posters and posters of protests. Cameras - well, what’s left of them - are scooped from the Moroccan walls with delicate care as he shuts his eyes. He’s standing by the marketplace. He can hear the chatter, loud and clear; he can see the colors, so vividly through the darkness. He’s been here before, as a kid, as a teen, as a dad with his wife and kids. The scarf he bought for Nora came from right there, just a few steps down, the fabric so beautifully patterned against those brown eyes-

His eyes flicker open. The world in front of him is tinted a faint blue, sucking all of the vibrancy out of the hallway. His palms are still wrapped around the camera, fingernails digging into the cracked glass until he can no longer feel them anymore.

“Cypher.” The voice startles him out of his reverie. “You alright?”

He swings around with narrowed eyes and a slight chuckle. “Of course, Brimstone. Nothing to worry about.” A quick gesture to his camera snaps Brimstone’s attention away from the market he was staring at. “Look at my poor cameras… always being shot out.”

Brimstone shifts in his position. The armor wrapped around his chest and legs give a quiet  _ clink _ as he takes a short step back, as if he had stepped into something intimate between the spy and his gear. “I see. Well, there’s a few minutes left before we have to go. Make sure you get all of your equipment back in time. Every last camera shard. We’re not leaving any glass behind.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Cypher pockets the small device. “You won’t get a mess from me.”

Perhaps that is one of the benefits of wearing a mask all the time: he never has to worry about being read. He doesn’t have to worry about giving himself away through the slight, pitiful look in his eyes, nor does he have to worry about losing his smile the second he steps foot into the market. 

Brimstone expects Cypher to behave how everyone else does when they step into their home countries for a mission - an immediate dip in performance levels, and nostalgia to follow after they finish. He waits for Cypher to ask if he could say hello to his family - maybe just to confirm that he  _ does _ have family still presumably alive - and because of the softness that Brimstone secretly harbors, he waits to say yes.

It’s tempting. His family is so close. And  _ god _ , how Cypher would love to run in and sweep his children up in his arms, how easy it could have been if he had just started running now. He could see how tall they’ve grown since the last time he visited. He could make sure they’re safe. He could ensure that Kingdom have not taken their lives as well. 

Instead, he turns toward the helicopter, and leaves his questions unanswered for another day.

* * *

The bullet in his head is sharper than the Russian cold. Cypher is surprised to know that being shot there feels like nothing - a single pinch, a cry that he couldn’t even hear himself, and then nothing. He feels himself hitting the snow, so cold and comforting, feels the gun in his hand slump against the ground. It’s red; the snow is red; the Breach clone is stepping over his corpse, the pistol in his hand ready to take its next victim; there’s so much white noise in his head, all tainted red.

_ “Cypher? Cypher. Sage is coming to you. Sage is coming, hold tight-” _

The world goes white.

* * *

Death is colorful, he realizes, when he opens his eyes. The world isn’t blue, eating away at the other colors of the world; it doesn’t flicker red with alerts about his tripwires and cameras all the time. He doesn’t hear the static and constant yelling over the earpiece as someone is under enemy fire. His face isn’t being stretched apart by the black mask, glued to his face - he can reach up and feel his hair, even while the sun is shining so brightly above. He can feel his own palms and all of the scars that litter them, and a weightlessness without his heavy coat and boots.

Aamir stands up. The sand clinging to his clothes is washed away by a gentle breeze. He takes a soft breath, seeing nothing but clear skies around him, until another gust of wind brings buildings that make him blanch.

A row of tan buildings, lined up side-by-side. Open windows with their wooden doors flapping in the wind. And - how could he forget? - the green door, worn out after years and years of use. The handle is more rust than it is silver, more dented than it is smooth. Scratches and chips cover the face of the door, as paint peels off piece by piece. More importantly, he feels a swell in his chest and pressure on his head. He feels a rise of panic and overwhelming relief. He feels like he belongs, but some part of him wants to run and keep running.

He can’t remember the last time he stood here. He’s always deemed it dangerous - not for him, of course. He has nightmares where he gives in and visits his kids. He thinks of the little conversations they would have, the laughter they would share as they catch up with magic tricks and odd stories. He thinks of growing careless, forgetting to check for tails and trackers, and realizing that he had given everything away, that he would return the next time to cold corpses, that he would leave Valorant with no home to return to.

So he stands, frozen. His hands are hastily stuffed in his pocket, looking for something to fidget with - there are no tripwires, no coins, nothing but air and runaway strands of thread to work with. His feet continue to fall into the sand until the door swings open; at that moment, his face loses its color completely. 

Standing in front of him is his dead wife and son.

Ahmed is still four, as he will always be; he stands on shaky legs, holding hands with his mother like it’s all he has. Everyone had always commented that the resemblance between him and Aamir was uncanny, and Aamir wonders if they would still say that with the newfound scars and stress that’s taken its toll on his face. His hands shake as he looks at Nora, her gentle smile, her eyes gleaming in the sunlight. She’s reaching out to him. She’s saying something that he can’t hear, words that resemble a vague  _ welcome _ and  _ we’ve missed you. _

Now, there is no argument. He’s unable to step back. He’s trapped by the sight of his family, his eyes unable to peel themselves off of the two. Aamir stumbles forward, arms outstretched, his own desperation and emotions getting the better of him. This is a dream, now reality - a place to call home, family in his arms, and Kingdom to never be seen again. His family is safe here, a thought that he cannot yet comprehend; the conditioned fear continues to linger underneath the hope.

_ You will not kill my allies. _

He’s a few feet away from them when he notices Nora’s eyes shift from joy to loss; he notices Ahmed tug on Nora’s sleeve with an urgency. He’s frozen where he is now - not of his own accord. His feet are stuck in place, glued to each other by imaginary restraints. He can no longer feel his hands as they grow colder by the second. The world is losing its vibrancy: the green door fades away to a dull blue, the walls all turn blue, it’s nothing but blue through his eyes.

He doesn’t realize he’s calling for Nora, voice all terse and panicked, until she shushes him.

_ Next time, Aamir. We’ll always be here for you. _

* * *

Cypher counts on Sage to not say a word. He knows what she heard; she knows what he said; it doesn’t take a single brain cell to understand what Cypher was referring to. Tripwire still locked between his fingers, being bounced back and forth with a slight quiver to his touch, he sneaks a glance at Sage. 

Her eyes are locked onto his, gaze calm and steely as usual. Somewhere there, he thinks, there is comfort and pity awaiting him, but perhaps - he thinks - it is better to not think of it.

_ For a moment, I saw them. _

Loss isn’t new to any member of the Protocol. But Cypher doesn’t understand a point in speaking about it, when he’s dealt quite well putting it to the back of his head. He doesn’t see a point in being open about the people he’s lost, when other people have lost so much more than he ever will. He doesn’t understand why people would settle for coming to terms with their loss, when his own is nothing but motivation for revenge.

So he continues to sit in the helicopter, dried blood dusting his shoulder and the tripwire in his hands. He thinks of the green door and the two of them, waiting for him to come home. He takes another look at Sage again and wonders if her hands can bring skeletons, buried under tons and tons of dirt, back into his arms.

* * *

“I’ve never seen you this quiet, Cypher.” Killjoy slides into the seat right next to him, a mug of tea in her hands. “Bullet planted a bug in your head, too? Need me to remove it for you?”

He chuckles and blinks the fog away from his eyes. Ungloved hands drum away at the table as his legs bounce up and down under the table. “There’s no need. There’s a lot to think about when you’ve come back from being dead.” Cypher’s eyes seem to flicker and dull. “But go on with your questions. You’re not here just to check in, little engineer.”

“But what if I  _ am _ here for only that?”

“Then maybe I need to check for the bug in your head.” 

Cypher points at her temples, and watches as Killjoy breaks out into a bout of laughter. The beanie on her head bounces up and down as she leans even closer to him, an inhuman curiosity in her eyes. They glitter in the bright lights of the cafeteria, filled with nothing but questions that demand to be answered to satisfy the genius.

“Fine, fine. Let’s start simple, shall we?” There’s a newfound lilt in her voice as she pulls out a notepad and a pen from her pockets. “How did it feel to die? Use as much detail as possible, please.”

_ Warm _ is the first place his mind goes to. It felt comforting. He felt as if he belonged somewhere, as if he wasn’t a Valorant spy being hunted down by the same corporation that destroyed his home. He’s forgotten about the initial fear and pain he felt as he slipped into death, the feeling of panic in his stomach as his head slammed into the snow, and the jolt as he spotted his home.

His hands grow more jittery; his heels continue to tap against the ground. Some part of him wants to return to them; another part reminds him that he has two daughters that are waiting for him back home. He is - frankly - more terrified of the new thought in his head: he wouldn’t mind experiencing death if it meant he could see them once more. He knows better than to rush into death, especially since both Brimstone and Sage would raise an eyebrow if he started growing careless, but the idea continues to linger.

He can almost feel the sand in his shoes and Nora’s hand in his. If he tries even harder, he can hear Ahmed’s laughter and Nora’s soft giggling. The wooden tables and tiled floors around him have faded away into the sands of his hometown, of Bind, and of the market where he bought Nora her scarf.

“Hallooo,” Killjoy waves a hand in front of his face, “Earth to Cypher.”

He blinks. His mind starts racing with an excuse. “Ah, sorry. I was thinking of how to describe it properly.” Another blink, another pause. “It is... typical. The world goes dark, and it feels like you would when you’re asleep: nothing.”

It’s a lie. Judging by the stare Killjoy bores down on him, as well as the slight hesitance lacing his own words, Cypher knows exactly what she’s thinking - his death is his first crack, the first chip on his shoulder that indicates there’s more to him than just laughter and tricks. That somewhere underneath the cybernetic eyes and the sinister act, there’s a gaping hole of hidden thoughts and secrets, of loss and despair.

* * *

His dreams grow more tangible after the incident. It feels as if he is there, in person, as if he is already dead and living a second life with his loved ones. Everyone is there, with him; they’re sitting around a table and eating together, the chatter around the table loud and lively. They’re in the house with the green door and the sand dusting the roads right outside. The room is alight with their smiles and laughter. He is swaddled in warmth, in comfort, in feelings of elation he hasn’t felt in a long time.

One look at the table, and anyone would be able to point out that he didn’t belong: for Aamir was the only one with age and scars lining his face, the only one with stress lines etching his skin. If anything, he realizes as he glances at a nearby mirror, he looks like the resident grandfather of the family. He looks as if he should be the one closest to death, the one who should have died earliest of them all.

* * *

The first sign that something is wrong on this mission is when he stumbles across a tripwire. He pauses for a moment, nearly having walked into the trap - a closer observation indicates that this is definitely not  _ his _ , with how the trip gleams red and orange unlike his brilliant blue. Another pause as his mind whirrs, and his thoughts are interrupted by the sound of something all too similar to his own camera activating.

Cypher looks up, and is greeted by the sight of blinking red. His hand swipes for his pistol, before shooting it out in no time. The bullet pierces through the glass, sending the sound of shattering throughout Ascent; it echoes along the run-down walls and bricks until it is all he can hear ringing in his head.

He can’t help but stifle his laughter.  _ A copy of me? How interesting. _ A flick of his wrist, a quick shot, and the tripwire is gone, too. Metal fragments rain down on the grass as they lose their orange luster; his pistol is tucked back into his jacket for his Operator as foreign, bitter thoughts begin to sweep in.  _ I wonder what you have to hide. What have  _ you _ lost, Aamir? _

He wonders if the clone ever had a family. He wonders if the clone has feelings of longing, of nostalgia, of regret and sorrow. He wonders if the clone is human in the first place without any of the experiences Cypher’s had. He wonders if the clone dreams of green doors and sandy roads. He wonders, wonders, and wonders - and some part of him is ready to spit up bile at how the answer is likely  _ no _ to everything. 

Who can blame him? Jealousy rears its ugly head at the thought of ignorance.

He holds his breath and steadies his quivering hands, his face flushed with a newfound anger. He takes aim. He knows where the clone would be standing; it’s exactly where he would be if he threw his camera in such a precarious spot. With his position secure and tripwires protecting him from all angles, he waits for Death to arrive. He prays that Death does not take the clone to his home, that Death doesn’t put Nora in danger even in the afterlife. He wants the clone to be granted the slowest death possible - mayhaps a bullet to the abdomen will do, and then his own camera can watch it bleed.

There’s a shadow in the corner of the scope. His chest grows tighter as he waits for a white coat to slide into his field of view. It doesn’t take long before it happens - a second, a millisecond, somewhere in between?

_ I am Prometheus. _

Cypher fires. It collapses to the ground with an audible groan.

_ And you are just a god. _

  
  



End file.
